_Rolla._ Against the gods!—No, the gods are on my side, their lightning is in my hand, their shield before my breast!—Short-sighted mortals!—What are the brightest, warmest rays of our god but pure effusions of that benign love which alike unfolds the rose-bud, and expands the human heart. Woe then to the miserable wretch who remains insensible to its genial influence, and pining in a cold damp corner of the earth lives a life scarcely superior to the senseless oyster. Cora even excels her former self, since she has yielded to this impulse;—and how could she fail to do so, for the gods would never leave their master-piece unfinished; and what is the heart without love, but a lamp without light, an eye without the power of vision?——These are things, Uncle, which however _you_ cannot understand. _High-Priest._ You do me injustice, Rolla. _Rolla._ Injustice!—You cannot have been yourself susceptible of the exquisite, the heavenly, feeling of love, when it is your lips that have condemned Cora. _High-Priest._ You are right now—it was my _lips_ condemned her. _Rolla._ But not your heart? _High-Priest._ Not my heart. _Rolla._ Come then to my arms;—I rejoice to find that you are a man!—But why stand here so cold and inactive?—fly and save her! _High-Priest._ That is impossible. _Rolla._ Courage, dear Uncle, courage!—Your grey hairs, your mild eloquence, my sword, and the arm of God!—all these united—Yes, yes, we will save her! _High-Priest._ Alas, young man, zeal blinds you to the steep rocks which lie in our way. _Rolla._ I feel sufficient energy to defy them. _High-Priest._ Ancient popular opinions—the customs of whole centuries—— _Rolla._ Nature is older than these. _High-Priest._ But not more powerful. _Rolla._ Mere evasion. _High-Priest._ Could I, by sacrificing the few short years remaining of my life, redeem the hapless Cora’s, I would instantly with firm and resolute step descend into this vault. _Rolla._ Babble. _High-Priest._ Are these tears also babble? _Rolla._ Hypocrisy!—do not talk, but act. _High-Priest._ What can I do? _Rolla._ (_Raising his hands towards Heaven_) Oh Father above, do thou then interpose to save her!—suffer not the most perfect work upon which thy rays ever shone to be destroyed, but, to the confusion of these unfeeling priests, save her!—Oh, how could I expect to find a heart of sensibility within such a shell!—the heart that beats beneath those garments never can have any feeling, except for vain and senseless customs; it dissembles towards its god, and is blood-thirsty as a tyger’s. _High-Priest._ Oh Rolla, you know not how much you wrong me!