_Ant._ Oh! fearful thought--but vain and distant now! Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief. Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led In triumph midst the noble and the brave, Thy glorious father to the temple bore The banners won in battle from his foes? _Mat._ A day to be remember’d! _Ant._ By his side Each seem’d inferior. Every breath of air Swell’d with his echoing name; and we, the while Station’d on high and sever’d from the throng, Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, While, with the tide of rapture half o’erwhelm’d, Our hearts beat high, and whisper’d--“We are his.” _Mat._ Moments of joy! _Ant._ What have we done, my child, To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate, Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow Inscribed a lofty name--a name so bright, That he to whom thou bear’st the gift, whate’er His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark For envy is the glory of our lot! And we should weigh its joys against these hours Of fear and sorrow. _Mat._ They are past e’en now. Hark! ’twas the sound of oars!--it swells--’tis hush’d! The gates unclose. O mother! I behold A warrior clad in mail--he comes, ’tis he! _Ant._ Whom should it be if not himself?--my husband! (_She comes forward._) (_Enter_ Gonzaga _and others._) _Ant._ Gonzaga!--Where is he we look’d for? Where? Thou answer’st not! Oh, heaven! thy looks are fraught With prophecies of woe! _Gon._ Alas! too true The omens they reveal! _Mat._ Of woe to whom? _Gon._ Oh! why hath such a task of bitterness Fallen to my lot? _Ant._ Thou wouldst be pitiful, And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense; Speak! I adjure thee, in the name of God! Where is my husband? _Gon._ Heaven sustain your souls With fortitude to bear the tale! My chief---- _Mat._ Is he return’d unto the field? _Gon._ Alas! Thither the warrior shall return no more. The senate’s wrath is on him. He is now A prisoner! _Ant._ He is a prisoner!--and for what? _Gon._ He is accused of treason. _Mat._ Treason! _He_ A traitor!--Oh! my father! _Ant._ Haste! proceed, And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all. Say, what shall be his sentence? _Gon._ From my lips It shall not be reveal’d. _Ant._ Oh! he is slain! _Gon._ He lives, but yet his doom is fix’d.