High-Priest. Madman rage on!—dare in thy phrenzy to raise thy arm against the gods!—
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.