SCENE III.—Enter the High-Priest.
Rolla. Ha!—here he is!—Oh tell me instantly, whether this be true or false?
High-Priest. Your words are scarcely intelligible, yet the wildness of your looks explains them but too clearly.—Alas! it is true!
Rolla. (Pointing to the grave) And here?
High-Priest. (With a deep sigh, and turning away his face) Yes!
Rolla. Tremble then, oh earth, and let thy whole surface become desolate!—Groan! groan! ye hills!—Thou fire burst forth in the valleys and consume the fruits of the soil, that the fertile spots may no longer be crowned with verdure, but the whole earth appear as one vast scene of conflagration!—Rise ye terrors of nature, ye storms and whirlwinds, that I may breathe more freely amid your mighty conflicts,—that the voice of my agony may contend with your roarings!—that my arm may slay more rapidly than the lightning itself!
High-Priest. Rolla, for the sake of all the gods!—
Rolla. No, she shall not die!—sooner shall the sacred lamp be extinguished, and the temple itself become a desert!—Believe me, Uncle, she shall not die!—you may tell me that the grave is already prepared—that her fate is inevitable!—Yes, it is prepared, but Rolla still lives!
High-Priest. Your words are of dreadful import!
Rolla. Sooner shall it be Rolla’s grave!—sooner shall he be stretched upon the earth, senseless, motionless, a breathless corpse!—Yet let him not even then be trusted hastily!—examine carefully that every spark of life be really extinguished, since if only one be left smothering, it will assuredly burst forth into a flame, and consume the persecutors of Cora. Oh, while this hand can wield a sword, let no one venture to touch Cora!—the blood of him who should harbour so sacrilegious a thought, shall answer for his rashness!—the priests—the king—even thou thyself.